But enough has been said. Surely the
reader, no matter how removed in sympathy from that line of argument,
must be able now at least to sympathize, to perceive that Bennington de
Laney had some reason for thought, some excuse for the tardiness of his
steps as they carried him to a meeting with the girl he loved.
For he did love her, perhaps the more tenderly that doubts must,
perforce, arise. All these considerations affected not at all his
thought of her. But now, for the first time, Bennington de Laney was
weighing the relative claims of duty and happiness. His happiness
depended upon his love. That his duty to his race, his parents, his
caste had some reality in fact, and a very solid reality in his own
estimation, the author hopes he has shown. If not, several pages have
been written in vain.
The conflict in his mind had carried him to the Rock. Here, as he
expected, he found Mary already arrived. He ascended to the little
plateau and dropped wearily to the moss. His face had gone very white
in the last quarter of an hour.
"You see now why I asked you to come to-day," she said without
preliminary.
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